And Still I Dream He'll Come To Me
by MorSaille
Summary: Pre-wincest / WINCEST. Plot is barely there, standalone pages, mostly PWP The boys have a rich and smutty fantasy life: Dreams, Daydreams and Memories. Escalating intensity. 'M' rating for adult content / explicit sex pg.3 and beyond. Thank you for reading.
1. Wake up

Sam didn't mean to watch his brother sleep. It was just the easiest time to see him, without being caught staring too long or letting his eyes rest on that thick and supple lower lip. He's imagined nibbling that lip so many times, that he can almost taste it.

Dean was dreaming deeply; his eyes darting quickly under the delicate skin of his eyelids. This looked like it might be a nightmare. Sweat was beginning to create a sheen on his brow and along his top lip. Dean's hands were clenched into fight, angry fists.

Usually when this happened, Sam would gently but firmly rub Dean's shoulder. Not enough to wake him all the way, but enough to let him move out of the nightmare - to let him figure out he was dreaming and to change direction. It's happened a lot since Hell. For most of the first year, Dean had multiple night terrors. Sam wasn't sure if Dean even remembers having them. He hoped not. His brother's screams were the soundtrack to what Hell must have been: Absolute fear, unparalleled sadness and exquisite pain.

The dream was getting more intense. When Dean's legs began to fight against the blankets, Sam kneeled next to the bed and reached for his shoulder. Sam's hand rested above Castiel's mark with a warm and reassuring weight. Sam could feel his brother's pulse, the blood sliding rapidly, just under the moist skin. Before Sam could decide whether to grip the shoulder more firmly or to rub light circles, Dean's eyes were open; unfocused and searching for a target.

His bleary eyes found Sam and with both hands, grabbed him roughly. In a matter of a few seconds, Dean had managed to lift Sam from the floor and heave him over his own body to the other side of the bed; rolling over Sam's pinned body to straddle him against the mattress.

Sam was scared. He could probably break this hold, but fighting back could be dangerous. He wondered briefly if he could be killed by his sleeping brother when Dean leaned down and buried his nose into Sam's hair, inhaling deeply. He pushed up, straightening his arms and smiling broadly before coming back down, very slowly this time. Sam stared back, his eyes wide. This was kind of everything he'd ever hoped for. Dean's body, pressed hotly against his pelvis. Even more than waking Dean, Sam's priority was to stop his body from responding to this closeness.

Dean kept Sam's arms held tightly as he rubbed his lips against the lips of his speechless and helpless little brother. "Don't fight, Sammy," he whispered against his ear.

Sam's resolve softened as his body hardened. Hunger and frustration. Dizzy. Lips and tongues, breath. Dancing, slipping and intoxicated. Promises of long-held desires, fulfilled. He felt Dean's growing erection, trapped between them.

"Dean," Sam whispered, because It's The Right Thing To Do, "You're asleep. Wake up."

"No, Sammy. I'm not." He rested his elbows on either side of Sam's head and pressed his body to Sam's panting chest.

Sam whimpered into the dark; grabbing the sheets below him tightly as he lost any will he'd had to resist. His cock surged to fullness as he strained upward against Dean's body, craving more contact. Dean laughed as he kissed him again, before taking a full handful of his hair and pulling his head to the side. Dean's face hovered so close that Sam could feel him brushing against the fine hairs that rose from the goosebumps on the skin of his neck.

"I'm not asleep, but YOU are, Sammy." Dean's fiery eyes softening, beginning to fade. "I'm sorry."

The phone was ringing. Sam rolled over to grab the receiver. "Wake up call."

"Thank you."


	2. Movie Night - Sam

A/N: I'm thinking rather than an independent plot, what about a compilation of the Winchester brothers fantasies about each other. I'm open to suggestions (and free proofreading). Without input, it's just me playing by myself.

* * *

From outside the dingy motel room you'd probably only be able to see the irregular flashes of the bluish light from the television, reflected on the curtains. It was a rare night off for the Winchesters. Inside, a battle was dangerously close to bubbling into war.

"Get OFF me, Squatch! That's it. I'm hitting 'Pause.'"  
"C'mon, Dean. There isn't enough room, you're gonna have to share."  
"Ouch."  
"Pansy."

The couch's frame groaned and snapped. The two-headed, hulking mass of tangled limbs atop it, froze in panic.

"...did we break it?"

"I hope not," Dean answered. "We really can't afford to buy this fleabag motel a new couch. You're ruining movie night with your freaky long-arms and bony elbows."

"Manspreader, calling ME a freak? Nice."

"Sorry Sam. Maybe if we turn sideways a little you can rest against my shoulder some, but keep away from everything HERE," and he gestured a large circle that covered his abdomen, upper thigh and all points in-between. "It's Porky's 2, and this is a tiny, Tiny couch."

Sam took a slightly sideways position, resting against Dean's shoulder. Dean sighed sarcastically, "Comfy, Sammy?"

"Better. Alright, then. Can I push 'Play?'"

The movie resumed and the kids from Angel Beach were taking on the KKK. It was one of the three VHS cassettes they owned. Sam was never really able to focus on it and usually let his mind fall into the calm and thoughtful place.

He'd slip away while Dean was driving, or when Bobby'd go on and on about nothing in particular. Bobby loved having someone to listen and Sam loved the sound of his paternal voice, filling the room. It was a comfortable thing, to have the time and the calm to get away for a little while; even if the freedom was limited to the space inside his own head. As he slid away from the oh-so-predictable, R-rated romp, his mind focused on the warm skin under his shoulder and the long line of contact that ran to his hip. He was resting against Dean's upper chest and shoulder and began to remember a warm day, several years ago - a day when they were both much younger with fewer scars.

John had always been irritated with Sam's bookishness. But then, he wasn't exactly willing to waste that talent, either. Having a researcher had already come in handy for more than a few dead-end hunts. So, Sam read while Dean bled.

Sam was in the kitchen of his adolescence. John was running Dean through drills in the backyard. They'd just finished weighted push-ups and Dean was running stairs. John had the hose and was filling three, five-gallon buckets. Hmm, new activity. Maybe a relay of some sort? Dean was shirtless and absolutely glossy with sweat. He paused on the top step and shook the wet from his hair. Sam swallowed thickly.

Sam looked out through the window over the sink. The brightness of the yard stained the inside of his eyelids violet, nearly blinding him in the relative darkness of the kitchen. He should be working on more important things than his naughty thought collection. As wrong as it was, He Wanted Dean.

In his mind, at least, Dean had always wanted him, too. Sometimes he allowed himself the illusion that they weren't really brothers at all. They were coworkers or teammates and his desire for Dean was little more than an intense workplace crush. They had always been so different and looked nothing alike. He was almost seventeen and had had to settle for a moderately fulfilling imaginary relationship. Still, he didn't trust the neutrality of his face near Dean and his father. What would happen if, one day soon, he looked too long or if his eyes were to jump, even briefly, to Dean's soft mouth or... his waistband? What if his father were to catch him casually sweep his gaze across his brother's forehead, down his chin and then further down his chest to where moisture collected near his navel?

He sat at the old, heavily marred, wooden table and opened to the center of a large, stale-smelling book of Runes and Glyphs of the Normans. The librarian had looked at him like he was insane, but he got that a lot.

Unable to focus on the pages, he used the quiet time to imagine what he'd rather be doing at this table.

He'd walk Dean right up against the edge of this thing, and Dean would look shocked - initially. He could imagine Dean's wide eyes, slowly softening in a knowing smile. Sam would pin him gently between his body and the table. First, he'd let himself look.

Dean would be able to feel Sam's eyes move over his oversensitive skin. Then Sam would move in close enough to taste Dean's salt on the air before taking his mouth in a series of small hungry bites - angry and desperate, until Dean would need to rest his elbows back against the table for support. Sam would run his tongue in a wide path up the side of Dean's neck - taking the beaded gloss from that tawny satin, the skin below Dean's ear. When he reached Dean's ear, he'd take the whole earlobe into his mouth and hold it gently between his teeth and say, "You look good enough to eat, Dean." And Dean would answer by grabbing Sam roughly around the waist and pulling him in close. He'd pull Sam's shirt off over his head.

At this point, the teenaged fantasy would always start to fall apart as he cursed his own inexperience. It would devolve into a series of snippets. Sam sucking on Dean's rough fingers, tasting faintly of sawdust and oil. Watching his own fingers and hearing each tooth of the zipper release as he freed Dean from his worn denim. He imagined watching Dean climax and feeling his own release. He dreamt of holding Dean's body tightly, skin to skin in his own bed, relaxed and happy in crisp white sheets, sunlight spilling in through the open windows.

As his experience had grown, so had the fantasy. Now, he could picture Dean sitting on the edge of the table, his heels resting on the arms of Sam's chair. He was completely undressed and watching Sam as if he'd like to take big juicy bite out of him, instead of it being the other way around. Sam would start with the inner thigh because Dean's surprised yelp was always so entertaining. Next, with his hands on Dean's knees, he'd gently scratch his way up both legs and run his hand though the slippery pool that had collected under Dean's heavy and distended cock. As Dean watched, he'd lick the syrup from his own palm from the base, near the wrist, to the tip of his index finger. Dean's eyes would roll back into his head. Sam's other hand would come down over Dean's erection as Sam moved to nuzzle and mouth his brothers adorably tight, shaved scrotum - licking the soft, rippled skin. When Dean's panting sped up he'd take his moistened finger and gently circle and tease the tight opening. He'd move upward, taking Dean into his hand, licking the wetness from his purpled head. As he pressed Dean's manhood between his eager lips, his finger would push gently into Dean's body. Dean hissed Sam's name, overcome with sensation.

Sometimes, Sam would have him right there on the table. Taking a bruising pace until they both cried out, exhausted and sated.  
Other times, they'd trade places and Sam would watch, smitten, as Dean would choke himself trying to swallow every last bit of Sam.  
Occasionally, his fondest wish was imagining Dean driving himself deeply into Sam's own ass. He'd be so full with Dean that there was no room left inside for anything but the overwhelming love he felt for his brother.

It's a good thing that his imagination was so much less explicit when he was younger. It was hard enough to stifle the feverish blushing as a teen.

His self-control is finely tuned at this stage of life and some of his most vivid fantasies have been composed on the road, sitting right next to Dean. He's trained his face to convey nothing but a vague, distracted fogginess.


	3. Movie Night - Dean

A/N: This is just plotless porn. I felt like I owed it to you guys after posting those first two sugary, sweet pages (that I've since tried to tart up a little bit). I'll work on some actual plot for next time? Or not. Let me know or I'll end up slipping into corny domesticity.

* * *

Dean watched Sam as he rested against his chest, not really watching the movie. Sam's hair had fallen forward, obscuring his profile. Dean allows his mind to wander, thinking how easy it would be to just let himself reach up, comb it back. He'd probably stop halfway through the motion just to savor feel of the hair.

He imagined that Sam would turn to face him...

...Sam was startled when Dean touched his hair. He turned, half expecting that it was a spider, or least accidental, but when he saw that Dean was watching him closely, his heart jumped.

"Sorry, Sam." The quiet was awkwardly electric.

"That's OK, Dean. It's nice." The brothers smiled at one another.

"Can I do it again, Sammy?"

Sam looked away and nodded. Dean reached up nervously and sunk one hand into those silky, caramel waves and ran his fingers through. A soft noise started from Sam's throat. It wasn't really a groan or a purr, but a good and happy noise.

Dean shifted on the couch so that he could use both hands. He drove his fingers down deeply to rub and gently scratch Sam's scalp. The sound coming from Sam deepened into a near moan. At the next pass, Dean let his fingers rake down Sam's neck, stopping just at the edge of Sam's collar. This time, the noise sounded very much like, "Deeean."

"Should I stop?"

"No, that's really good."

Dean held Sam's head with one hand buried in his hair, while he circled the shell of Sam's ear with the other. The hand continued down the front of Sam's neck, inside his shirt, splaying fingers over the warm skin of his chest. He was close enough now that he had to fight the urge to smell Sammy; he wanted his face pressed down into those buttery-soft waves. "What about now, Baby Boy?"

Sam sucked in air though his teeth; a slow and thoughtful move that betrayed a measure of his arousal.

"Tell me to stop, Sam."

Dean took his time removing his hand from Sam's hair and dragging his fingertips along Sam's neck, raising goosebumps along the way. He circled Sam's neck in slow motion and reached for the buttons of Sam's shirt. They both held their breath and wondered how far this was going to go. He fingered the first button and began to unbutton it. "Sam?"

Then he felt Sam shift against him - warm and heavy in the center of his chest, nestling down into the warm hollow between his legs. Sam rested his hand on Dean's strong thigh and said, "Do you need any help with those?" Dean smiled and began working faster.

They peeled Sam out of his shirt, he turned and slid up Dean's body. "Can I kiss you, Dean?" Dean stared dumbly, from one of Sam's eyes to the other, searching for doubt or deception. Not finding either he fell upward slowly, toward Sam, caught in his gravity and with a strangled whimper of his own. Dean's hot and needy tongue dove deeply into the eager and waiting mouth of his little brother. So close, fighting for each gasping breath. Dean's shirt, just an unwanted obstacle. Sam's frustrated fingers trying to touch each inch of Dean's exposed skin at the same time. The sensation of floating, so strong, that when they stood to remove more clothing, they felt unusually heavy and unsteady - like climbing from the water. Dean kicked out of his jeans and Sam held his hand, pulling him toward the bed.

Sam wrapped himself around his brother and swallowed Dean's nervous smile with another dizzying kiss.

"Sam, I want you to take me."

"Are you sure, Dean?"

"I want to feel you."

He stretched out on the bed and Sam draped himself gently - so carefully above him. Kissing his temples, biting his lips, running his mouth along Dean's collarbone and gently thumbing his frightened nipples with a smile. Sam worked his way down Dean's body - tasting, touching and appreciating the remarkable beauty, so unlike his own. Ethereal. At the waistband of Dean's briefs he looked up at him and smiled wickedly before running his tongue right up the center of the warm fabric - an almost painful tease for the magnificent erection barely trapped inside. His fingers dipped in under the waistband while Dean flung his arm up over his eyes, trying very hard to be still.

Dean felt his underwear sliding down his legs and off, finally off. Sam hissed appreciatively and Dean tried to hide his grin. Sam lifted Dean's knees and sat between them. His large, soft hands caressed Dean's aching and glistening member. He felt Sam's wet, feathery kisses and then Dean's cock was pulled inside Sam's deep, satin mouth. "No, Sammy. I'm too, this is, so much - I can't. Please, not until you're in me."

He could feel Sam chuckle around him and the wave of arousal sent a few warm drops of wetness to Sammy's tongue. He pulled off with a wink and a long final lick, "Yummy."

Sitting between the arches of Dean's legs, Sam began to stroke and tease the skin behind Dean's balls. Then the hands were gone. With his eyes covered, the squeeze-bottle sound came as a little bit of a shock, but then Sam's hands were back - warm and very slickly wet. Those hands slid and twisted up the length of his cock before heading down to tease open Dean's tight knot, hidden in the dark. The first finger slipped in easily and Dean groaned - his erection straining against the limits of his own skin. Sam ran his tongue in a long and winding path up the underside of Dean's member while pressing in a second finger alongside the first. "Are you alright, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. It's so good."  
"Still want this?"  
"Hell yes!"

Sam slid the fingers deeper and began to rub the slickness along his own length.

"Sam?"  
"Yeah?"  
"Do it now."  
"I think I need to stretch you more. There's no way I'm going to fit."

"No, I want to feel it - I want you to push me open, Sammy."

Dean could almost hear Sam's mind fighting the effect of those words, the lustful surge that threatened to finish him, but he could feel Sam's hot, slippery head, butting up against his tight, slick hole. Sam bit back a growl as he slowly increased the pressure. Dean began to widen slowly. The stretching burn was so wonderful that he had an impatient urge to force Sam in. Sam's hands slid under Dean's hips and lifted him half onto his lap. Sam's legs cradled his weight. The pressure increased. When Dean imagined he was about to be torn in half, he felt the large, hot head of his little brother tuck in under the tight wall of skin. Dean laughed with relief and Sam took a sharp breath, his voice gravelly when he whispered, "God, Dean, you're SO tight."

Dean is on his elbows, panting and with a strained expression, "Does it hurt?"

"It's amazing. You're amazing. Am I hurting you, Dean?"

"Oh yeah, but it's so good. Thank you, Sammy. Keep going."

Sam continued his slow intrusion while pulling Dean's body ever closer with his legs. When there was no space between them; when Dean held every inch that Sam had to give, he looked up at him and said, "I love you, Sammy."

Sam answered, "Me too, Dean. I love you so much."

"Why didn't we do this years ago?"

"Shut up and drill me, you sexy bitch," he winked up playfully at his brother.

"Hey!" Sam laughed, "I'm kind of in the middle of loving you right now. If you want to fight, you'll have to wait." Sam slid Dean back a little and then pulled him up tight against his body. Dean moaned, open-mouthed at the absolute fullness.

Sam drove into him for a few strokes before pulling him up higher into his lap. He wrapped Dean's legs around his waist while Dean snaked his fingers back into Sam's hair. From this position, he could fill his hands with Dean's ass, lifting and rocking, slamming into the safe shelter of his body. They stopped just long enough for another deep kiss. Being cuddle-fucked was definitely something worth repeating, but Dean was a bad passenger - he wanted to drive. He pushed Sam back against the bed. Dean knelt over him, careful to angle his pelvis, and slid down into the saddle and rode Sam.

Sam started to work Dean's cock as Dean drove himself down over and over onto Sam's length, impaling himself hungrily.

Dean's pace was starting to become erratic and his muscles strained to continue. Sam's fingers slid up and over the sensitive skin of his head. It was that last, fiery touch that ignited the chain-reaction inside him. The space behind his eyes lit up. Lightning ran along his spine and all the way down to paralyze his toes into a tight curl. Dean almost yelped as he sat down roughly on Sam and shot thick, hot ribbons of seed against Sam's chest and fingers. "Sam-my." Dean's orgasm squeezed Sam until he couldn't hold back any longer. He thrust up, shamelessly, into Dean's welcoming and overheated ass, as deeply as he could reach. He threw his head back as a long, low, rattling groan escaped his throat.  
And then, Dean's little brother drained every last drop of pent-up longing into his big brother.

But...

They were both still on the couch.

On the screen, Wendy was sloshing brazenly around the restaurant in the red-sequinned dress. _"It's almost over."_ Dean's pants were damp and uncomfortable.

He savored the weight and heat of Sam against his shoulder.

He'd seen this movie so many times that it was just background noise. For years he's known the lines and when to laugh. Movie night with some vintage raunchiness has become an acceptable excuse for the boys to cuddle. Sam's face was still vacant, lost in thought. Dean didn't know where Sam goes when he slipped away like this but he used the opportunity to scoot a little deeper into the cushions. The move tipped Sam back against Dean a little bit further and caused his forearm to slide into the nook where Dean's hip and thigh join. Dean winced in an inward jolt of pleasure. His wilting, but still half-erect cock jumped with a pang of longing. If Sam had noticed, he'd assume it had something to do with the naughty coeds fighting city hall.

Whatever this is, this thing he has for Sam - it isn't real. It can't be real. And as long as he doesn't look at it too closely, it never has to be anything other than his secret.

Maybe it's difficult to get off in the shower without remembering this. Sam, just like this. The way Sam's hair curls around his ear, the sweet, warm smell of him, picturing Sam wrapped in a towel, imagining what Sam'd look like on his knees - on his back, on his stomach, oiled up. He's built a perverse mental highlight reel, Ruby and the others before her, riding Sam as his large hands grip their hips and pull them down around him. It's a cocktail of equal parts jealousy and arousal. In order to get through movie-night, he needed to forget about Sam and actually watch the end of it, before Sam becomes too alert.

He tried not to glance, longingly, in the direction of the bed.

He needs a shower tonight.

Sam is definitely going to tease him about being turned on by the same old movie.


	4. A Shot in the Dark

"Why are we down here, Dean?" Sam asked, in a voice colored with confusion and fear.

"I told you. They need Dad's help." He seemed to be somewhat unclear on what was going on as well. "This is new. Dad thinks we're safer down here in the basement."

They'd been headed south through Eau Claire when John had gotten a call from an old Corps buddy in Minneapolis, Mike Sawyer. He'd locked his wife, April, in the closet when she'd threatened to kill him. The story was bad enough, but John's blood had chilled when Sawyer said that her eyes had been like black marbles, cold and dead. When she'd told him that she was going to "gut him like a fish and wear his viscera for jewelry." John had heard her in the background, screeching and laughing behind the closet door. He'd seen the demons travel, knew it could have jumped into Sawyer at any time to kill them both. This one was playing with his friend. Torturing him for fun. He'd turned the car. Now they were at the house.

They'd tied April down, Linda Blair style. John had hidden the boys in the basement - As if the demon needed any more emotional collateral to screw with. This was going to be hard enough without offering up his own boys as appetizers.

"So... It's an exorcism? Like the movie?"

"No, not like the movie, Sam." Dean rested his hand on Sam's sixteen-year-old shoulder, "This is real and they've never done this before. Dad's afraid that if they can get it out, it might get into us."

"Then why are we even here, Dean?"

"He couldn't leave us in the car... It'd love to get into the car, wouldn't it?"

Sam was lost for words at that. He took a look around this strange, damp hole. He'd seen worse basements. This one was too wet, but at least it had a concrete floor and a threadbare, musty couch. An aged and wooden spool table, covered in old magazines, sagged near-by. They were mostly Field & Stream with a few skin-mags thrown in. The magazines were stacked in various lop-sided and sliding piles. Against the far wall was some moisture-warped shelving with glass jars full of dark ...stuff. " _Please be pickles, beets or jam... Please be pickles, beets or jam..."_ Newspapers. Mountains of old, damp newsprint were lumped into an empty corner. Some piles were wrapped with plastic ties, but there had to be a truckload or even three, here. _"How does that even happen?"_ He thinks. " _One at a time, like everything else - I suppose."_ He answered himself automatically.

"Rummy or Slap Jack, Sammy?" Dean asks, pulling a worn deck of cards from his jacket pocket.

"Enough with the kid games, Dean. Let's play Poker," he said, moving a pile of _*please don't be sticky*_ magazines to the floor so they'd have room at the table.

"Blackjack, then, Sammy?" He offered, "Poker isn't any fun with only two."

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's oh-so-adult opinions on cards. Blackjack was easy, but it was his Poker game that needed practice. Dean was holding out on him. If Sam got good at Poker, Dean would have to be more careful in placing his bets. It'd suck if they were ever reduced to just Rock, Paper, Scissors. Well, it wouldn't be _that_ bad; Sam won every single time because Dean was incapable of choosing anything but 'scissors.'

Dean shuffled the cards, the sound of the deck competing with the dragging sound of chair legs across the upstairs floor. He'd dealt the first two cards when the light bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered once before extinguishing itself and plunging the boys into total darkness. It was so quiet.

"...Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. I'm right here." A warm hand came down over Sam's fingers and pulled them into a firm hold.

"Thanks, Dean." His voice sounded weak in his own ears. "How long do you think it'll be out?"

Upstairs, a loud, angry and inhuman screech was immediately followed by the excited voices of the men above, shouting in Latin.

"It could be awhile yet, Sammy." Dean's voice was resigned, but tender when he asked Sam if he was afraid of this kind of dark. The cold, moist air was clotted with the darkness. No window - they couldn't even distinguish the crack under the door at the top of the stairs.

"I'm not scared, Dean," he said without conviction.

Only half-jokingly, Dean said, "I'm terrified. I'm scared out of my mind by what diseases might be lurking in this couch, and what we'd see if we had a black light. This seedy couch is the scariest thing here - demons be damned."

Sam laughed and leaned against his brothers side. "Want to go sit on the newspaper mountain?"

"Very much yes, Can you imagine what Dad'd say if either of us got knocked up by just sitting on his buddy's basement couch?! Let's go." They giggled and shuffled their way through the darkness.

They tried not to think of the cold, water-logged stone; of being underground. No fresh air. This basement was a grave. Well, grave-like. It was too large and well decorated to be a grave - it was a crypt. They needed to make a conscious effort to not let the darkness feel like Death.

Sam found the stack first, running the toe of his shoe into it. He turned and jumped onto the waist-level pile. He swung his feet. Dean stood in front of him, tense. Sam could hear his brother's breathing and could picture the nervous expression that went with that sound. "Are you alright, Dean?"

"I was going to ask YOU... I, think I'm OK. I was remembering when I used to sing to you."

"You never SANG to me, Dean," Sam whispered, incredulously.

"Yes, Sammy, I did." A hand came up to push the hair back from Sam's face easily, without even trying to locate it. "I'd sing to you when you couldn't sleep, or sometimes when I was worried because you were sick."

Sam trapped Dean's hand against his ear with his own, "Sing to me, Dean."

"Christo. Are you nervous, Sammy? ...Because I'm a kind of a wreck right now."

"I'm shaking aren't I?"

He felt Dean move in closer, between his knees, his long arms coiling around his brother. "Are you cold?"

He said, "Yes," as he rested his cheek against Dean's tight jaw, working wordlessly. He held very still as Dean pulled away. Sam's heart lurched, painfully, until he heard a leathery noise and Dean's jacket was draped, hot and comforting around his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around Dean's body and Dean held Sam against him by pulling the sides of the jacket in, like a hammock. Sam's mind reeled, it thrilled, screaming joy.

Quietly, oh so quietly, the words began to unwind against Sam's collar. "So close no matter how far, couldn't be much more from the heart," Dean's voice was suppressed to a whisper, but Sam had never heard anything as sweet as this power ballad, turned lullaby, turned love song. "Forever trusting who we are, and nothing else matters."

Sam's eyes felt very heavy. He could very easily nod off right now. Dean rolled his sleeping brother onto his side and pulled his legs up so that he'd be more comfortable. Sam smiled and stretched his neck before snuggling down into the warm cave of Dean's jacket...

* * *

...Sam turned his head to press the corner of his mouth to Dean's temple and hair. Dean took a deep, resigned breath and continued, "Never opened myself this way. Life is ours, we live it our way. All these words I don't just say, and nothing else matters."

Sam slid as tightly as he could against Dean's body and wrapped his legs behind his knees. Dean stopped singing long enough to drag his face up from his brother's neck. His lips trembled and he licked them to calm himself. He finished singing the last part with his forehead pressed to Sam's. "Trust I seek and I find in you. Every day for us something new. Open mind for a different view," he sucked a chestful of air in through his nose, sharing Sam's breath, "And nothing else matters."

Sam pulled Dean's lips to his and whimpered as he opened his mouth against his brother's. The darkness, both incredibly intimate and completely anonymous.

"Sam... No."

"Dean?"

"I'm sorry, Sammy. It's, I'm... not right. I'm broken, sick."

"You're NOT sick, Dean. Unless it's both of us. Whatever it is that you've got, I have it, too," He heard Dean groan, deep in his throat, "Are you scared, Dean?"

"Yes."

"Don't be," and Sam pulled Dean back in and deepened the kiss until he felt Dean's hands tighten into the belt loops of his jeans; Dean's strong and knowing tongue worked its way into his mouth. His legs lost any ability or desire to resist. His whole body agreed that this was the best idea they'd ever had.

Above them the men paced the floor. Even though the boys still couldn't see in the total dark, the old men had lit candles in the rooms above. Every so often, a gap in the floorboards was wide enough to allow a sliver of light so that the worn floor above them seemed like a night sky.

Sam pressed the weeping, and aching heat of his cock against Dean. Dean's voice was thick and raspy with want, "You feel so good, Sammy," and rubbed him through the dewy material. "Can I taste you?"

Sam nodded emphatically, with his head thrown back, but unable to see his answer, Dean waited until Sam was able to choke out a weak, but very agreeable stream of yesses. Dean kissed Sam, filling his mind with bright colorful sparks and warm patches of sun, while his hands undid the button and zipper of the jeans. He dropped to his knees to help shimmy Sam from the pants. As the last foot escaped, Dean's mouth closed around the swollen, leaking head. His tongue made long and hungry passes along Sam's length. In the privacy of the inky, artificial night, the sensations were so amplified that Sam began to climax very soon. Hot, panting breaths led to weak thrashing right before he filled Dean's eager mouth. Dean smiled around the mouthful and Sam felt both the smile and the soft milking of Dean's throat, drinking him down.

"Dean?"

His cock began to refill when he felt the humming vibration of Dean's answering, "Hmmnmn?"

"I need you."

"Sam?"

"Get in my tight, virgin ass, Dean. I want you to. Please."

"Sam..."

"Pretend it's a dream. No one can see. No one will know. It already smells like skeezy sex couch down here," he laughed. "It's my dream, Dean. Give it to me?"

"It's not your dream, Baby Boy, what you're saying - all of this is MY dream," Dean stood and kissed him, Sam's taste fresh on his tongue. Dean changed the angle of the kiss and dipped his fingers, one at a time, into Sam's fluttering tunnel. It had to be a dream - Sam's body was slick and ready. Sam's hand reached for Dean's heated girth and, rubbing his thumb over its dripping slit, held it against his opening. Dean could feel the welcoming hole, stretching to take him. "Turn over, Sammy."

Sam slid down and bent forward over the humid newsprint. With his cheek pressed against the stack, he licked Dean's nectar from the pad of his thumb. He'd never thought of the scent of mildewing paper as an erotic thing, but from here on out, newsprint, even a little smudged ink on his fingertips would cause him a sudden wave of arousal.

Dean slid in tiny circles against Sam's pucker. It widened easily as Dean slid into the hot, living darkness of Sam's body. With his hand gripping Sam's cock, he started slowly plumbing the depth of Sam's interior. He sped up into a furious, wet pounding that left both boys nearly winded. Dean fell forward against Sam's back and stuttered, "S-saam-my," as he filled him with a full measure of creamy goodness. Sam's eyes rolled back at the perfect and delicious feeling. Dean kept stroking Sam until he came for the second time, coating both Dean's fingers and the side of a waist-high stack of the Star Tribune.

They stilled and Dean whispered against his hair, "If this was a dream, I don't want to wake up."

He heard Sam chuckling and panting into the blackness around them, "Yeah, me either."

* * *

The light was too bright. John was shaking him awake. Sam was still curled into Dean's jacket and his father was apologizing in the only way he knew how - mussing his hair and scolding them.

"Damn it, Sam, for a minute there, I thought it might have done something to you. Dean? Why'd you let him sleep?"

"It was hours. He was cold and whining. I thought it'd be easier to let him sleep through," Dean answered, stifling a yawn of his own.

"You thought, huh?" John's eyebrow arched up, challenging.

Slipping in between them, before things got tense, "I wasn't whining, Dean. Sorry, Dad. Did you get the demon?"

"Yeah. I think so," his tone dropped. "April didn't make it, though."

"We're sorry, Dad."


End file.
